


Common Wizards

by cassiansmanbun (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 19:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15825762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cassiansmanbun
Summary: Harry Potter has reached a rather stale twenty eight. His job as a lawyer for the Ministry defending muggleborns from the corruption and prejudice of the justice system is deflating and unsuccessful. Despite Voldemort’s defeat ten years ago, not much has changed.But when a muggleborn woman is mysteriously murdered and nothing is done, Harry takes the case into his hands in hope of bringing justice. Un-fortunately, the one and only witness of her death is an old foe, Draco Malfoy.





	Common Wizards

“Appeal dismissed,” the judge calls.

The dull sound of the gavel echoes against the smooth stone walls of the court room. Silence ensues, filled by the hushes whispered by the blue flames of the torchlights that burn on the court’s walls. The jury erupt in a muffle of muttering and tuts as they shuffle out of the enclosed row of benches, their time wasted. Harry’s breath catches as the defendant bows his head defeatedly. The plaintiff give content nods and shake hands in congratulation. He shoots the judge a look, the blue and green tones of the court room washing his face in an even sicklier grey. His thin lips are wet and toad like, his face wobbly and wrinkled like soggy paper, a pleased gleam in his buttony eyes. 

The defendant is escorted from the small platform in the centre of the court on which he stands like a circus animal, his wrists binded by a glowing rope. Tucking his papers underneath his suit clad arm, Harry paces down the sloping rows of benches and trails behind him. 

They pass through the threshold from which they entered. Harry’s heart feels like it’s in his mouth and his throat is constricted. “Well done, you did your best,” the words spout of his dry mouth like second nature, an empty attempt to comfort his defendants when they were unsuccessful. Which was most of the time, thus it had become second nature. 

Barnaby Wilson, the defendant, snorts in return. The darkness of the corridor they walk through casts grey shadows across his tough, aged face and makes him look incredibly tired. Harry ignores him and continues, “We’ll try again, we just need to make the case stronger and you’ll be out in no time,” he steals a glance at the guard and lowers his voice, “besides, Judge Crowley is know for being quite, backwards.”

They reach the end of the dimly lit corridor. Barnaby strikes Harry a deathly look as the guard tugs him into a tighter grip. “You’ll have to leave now, sir, the defendant must return to custody,” he says firmly. Harry draws in a breath, despair and guilt coursing through his blood. “Very well,” he plasters on an assuring smile, “I’ll organise to meet you some time this week so we can discuss.” He straightens himself, and watches as Barnaby’s tired eyes never break from his as he slips through the door. 

They are swimming with contempt and defeat. 

-

The morning’s disappointment is still fresh, like a gaping wound unable to clot. The bitter americano Harry cradles in his aching hands does little to ease his mood. 

Harry had worked for three tedious months on Barnaby Wilson’s case. It had been an attempt to repeal his prison sentence. He had been ordered to serve ten years for using magic against a muggle. “I said the knife was inches from my throat, but they just wouldn’t listen,” he’d told Harry the story of how he had no other choice but to act in self-defence and stupefy the muggle who’d attempted to harm him. The courts had treated him unfairly, like they did with most muggleborns, Harry concluded. Harry remembers Barnaby saying with a grimace “Ex-death eaters have spent less time in prison than I have.”

Barnaby had shown Harry a picture of his wife and two young children. They were at the beach, all holding Mr Whippy’s that were practically toppling over, smiles as bright as the fluffy ice cream. Harry was puzzled at how the courts could ignore these innocent people’s humanity. How could they treat them with such revolting prejudice and unfairness simply because they were born to muggles?

He spins round on his office chair, the coffee swishing and toppling out of the rim of the mug. Behind his desk is a small window. A magical one of course, the ministry’s headquarters was an underground labyrinth, there was no natural daylight. Repulsed by the clear blue sky, rolling green hills and shining sun, he changes the scene with a flick of his wand to one that mirrored his mood a little better. Drizzly rain and concrete clouds. 

A tremendous pile of letters and papers awaits him on his desk. They are all adressed with his name and stamped with the minuscule postage stamp where a black and white Dumbledore smiles whimsically. They’d changed it after Voldemort’s defeat. Harry wonders what Dumbledore would’ve thought of the wizarding world as it was now. He might’ve left it peacefully, content with knowing it would become a better place. It couldn’t have gotten much worse when he died, anyway. But muggleborns are still treated with disparity and co-existence with muggles has made no less than a baby step. Maybe I should try and get ‘avarda kerdavred’ again and ask, Harry muses. 

There’s a knock on his office door. Harry’s heart sinks at the thought of having to listen to some Ministry official gloat about his failure.

“Come in,” he groans. 

However, to his pleasant suprise, a bushy mop of hair pokes around the door. It’s Hermione. She trots in, a small smile on her face. She’s wearing a long tweed pencil skirt and a tasteful pale blue blouse. A pair of gold triangular earrings trail down to her jaw. 

“Afternoon Harry," she greets gently. “Alright,” he says in return, pointing his wand at one of the chairs nestled in the corner of his office so it shoots across the floor and halts opposite his desk. Hermione takes a seat and places two brown, slightly greasy packages on his dishevelled desk. Harry can smell the sweet, comforting scent of pumpkin pastries. “I bought some lunch,” she explains, pushing a pastry towards Harry “I know that you forget about it sometimes because of work,” she pauses and bites her lip awkwardly, “though I suppose you don’t really want to eat.”

Harry takes out the pastry, the greasyness and flaking, crispy crust making his stomach rumble. He realizes how hungry he really is. “Thanks Hermione,” he says quickly, mouth watering, before taking a monstrous bite. The inside is soft and starchy, just as it should be. Hermione beams, taking a smaller bite of hers. Harry has wolfed down half of his pastry befofe he starts to talk. “How’s your day been then?”. 

Hermione glances up from her pastry, her eyes wide, “How’s my day been? How’s yours been? It must’ve been awful, how could Judge Crowley do that? Barnaby is an innocent man, his actions were completely justified, Judge Crowley knows full well that! He’s a dirty, fould old man blinded by his pride and ignorance. Why, I have every right to go up to him and give him a good kick up his fat ar-“. 

“Hermione, cool it,” he’s taken aback by her sudden outburst of rage. Her cheeks have flushed an angry, blotchy red and her earrings are swinging like wind chimes in a strong breeze. Her expression softens and her red cheeks subside to a light pink. “Oh, I’m sorry Harry,” she sighs, “It’s just truly unbelievable in this day and age stuff like this is still happening.”  
“Don’t sweat it, I’m used to it,” he replies grimly, “It was it is. I’m only twenty eight, my whole career is ahead of me. Though I wouldn’t mind you giving him a good kick if you see him around the place,” he adds slyly. A smirk spiders it’s way across Hermione’s mouth, and she takes a bite from her pastry.

“Well, my day’s been same old same old,” Hermione continues between a mouthful, “Had to deal with some pretty disgruntled house elves. They claim that their master had given them a dress, but he said it didn’t count as a token of freedom because it belonged to a doll. Ron’s swanning about with the aurors, doing whatever they do. They’re in some place in Wales at the moment, goodness knows what sort of dark magic is happening there. I get awfully lonely in my apartment, I’m thinking of getting a new cat actually, though don’t tell Ron.” Harry enjoys listening about his friend, the red haired boy he’d met on the Hogwarts Express, with black soot smeared across his nose. They hadn’t spoken in about three weeks. 

“Getting a cat isn’t a bad idea,” agrees Harry, “I find myself having the radio on constantly, even though I’m not listening to it. This sounds embarrassingly sad, but it fills the silence.” Hermione tilts her head, taking a concered nibble of her pastry, “Do you miss Ginny?”

This strikes a chord with Harry. His chest suddenly feels tight and there’s an unexplainable ache in his throat. He and Ginny had separated three months back, just before he’d delved into working on Barnaby’s case. It hadn’t been anything bad, she just spent too much time away playing for the Holyhead Harpees and Harry spent too much time locked in his office, working overtime on hopeless cases. He’d see more of Ginny on the television and on posters than in real life. Life had taken over, and they couldn’t keep up. He remembered the night she left, all her boxes neatly stacked, brimming with her belongings. The apartment was practically stripped bare. She never threw away a lot of stuff, she would grow too attached to it. Molly was waiting outside their apartment, but they’d spent at least an hour crying and kissing and holding each other for one final time, limbs tangled, hair in mouths. Their flame went out that night, and Harry knew it wouldn’t ever rekindle. 

Hermione studies his jaunt, pale face, the unshaved stubble he scratches, the veil of melancholy over his brilliant green eyes. All Harry says in return is, “Sometimes.”

They eat the rest of their pumpkin pastries in silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! I checked for typos but there may still be some. Sorry if I got anything court/law related wrong I basically just got any information I needed from Google. There will be more chapters soon (hopefully) xx


End file.
